TÁR

Year of release: 2022. Directed by Todd Field. Starring Cate Blanchett, Nina Hoss, Noémie Merlant, Mark Strong, and Sophie Kauer.

Earlier this year I went to hear the National Youth Orchestra perform their summer program at Carnegie Hall. The program was the Elgar Cello Concerto and Mahler 5. My personal feelings about Elgar aside, the summer academy for those high schoolers yielded amazing results in a concert that culminated in one of the most daunting symphonies ever composed. (Actually, it culminated with an encore medley of E.T. themes, which was a perfect digestif to the concert.)

My personal feelings about Elgar not aside, the only reason to program a work as horrendously boring as his Cello Concerto is to have the audience take a nap so they’re refreshed for the Mahler. (For the record, I do like some Elgar, but he’s a very hit or miss composer for me, and the Cello Concerto is a big miss.)

Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchett in a ferocious performance that’s probably her greatest work yet) presumably does not share my antipathy toward the Elgar Cello Concerto, and thus she chooses to pair it with the Berlin Philharmonic’s recording of Mahler 5 under her baton. However, by the time she selects it, it is clear Lydia has ulterior motives and is trying to groom a young, new cellist who has just joined her orchestra.

Lydia is not a monster from the first scene; indeed, the backstage shots of her taking pills to calm her nerves and being reassured by her assistant before an interview with Adam Gopnik (himself) garners her some sympathy, even if her responses to the interview are a little off-putting and clearly somewhat phony. However, as the film progresses, she becomes more and more unlikeable and the depths of her inhumanity and arrogance become increasingly apparent. That Blanchett maintains our interest in Lydia and what happens to her while also making her so repulsive is a testament to the power of her performance.

Shortly after that interview, Lydia has lunch with a colleague who clearly worships her and then teaches a conducting masterclass at Juilliard. The masterclass takes an interesting turn, when a BIPOC, pangender student insists that they can’t really be into Bach because he was a straight, cis, white man who fathered too many kids.

I’ll be honest, as a professional musician who has reckoned with truly problematic composers and performers, dismissing Bach for those reasons reeks of glib, lazy involvement with one’s art while doing nothing to actually address past and present injustices, and it gives wokism a bad name. (If you want to talk about the anti-Semitism in the St. Matthew Passion and how we reconcile that, or don’t, with current performances, that’s an entirely different question.)

Lydia’s response, however, is even worse. Her tirade humiliates the student and builds on her belief that there is no gender discrimination in classical music, and we should examine all music in a vacuum as if it exists independently of its creator, and the works have no bearing on the lives of their composers.

This is a striking contrast to the opening New Yorker interview where she reverently describes her mentor Leonard Bernstein grappling with the greater context of Mahler 5 and changing his interpretation of it depending on where he was conducting it. In that interview, she insists it’s impossible to conduct Mahler 5 unless you know the details of what was going on in Mahler’s personal life, because that influenced how he composed the symphony.

If this juxtaposition of scenes and attitudes doesn’t reveal Lydia’s hypocrisy and shallowness at first, her later interactions with everyone in her life do. A notable scene for a “blind” cello audition shows Lydia noticing that one auditionee is the attractive young female she saw earlier, because she sees the same shoes beneath the stage curtain. Lydia promptly erases whatever criticism she had written on her form.

According to Lydia’s wife (Nina Hoss), the concertmistress for the Berlin Philharmonic, the only non-transactional relationship Lydia has ever held is with their daughter. And yet, even that relationship is tainted, as Lydia has strict rules the girl must follow. Lydia’s handling of a school bully is nothing short of emotional child abuse, because in her world power and favoritism are how you achieve anything.

TÁR isn’t really a cautionary tale about power corrupting or a feminist who broke glass ceilings and then sealed them over behind herself. It’s a character study of an absolute monster from that monster’s perspective.

If that sounds tiring, or if this review’s focus on Lydia’s unethical behavior makes it seems like she’s an overbearing presence on the film, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s a riveting descent into madness by a character who has replaced human interactions with artistic ones, and director Todd Field knows how to punctuate the film with reminders of the humanity Lydia is so lacking.

The film is shot entirely from Lydia’s perspective, and the unreliable narrator trope is brilliantly reflected in the editing. The opening scenes use long takes as Lydia’s confidence in asserting her worldview and her power comes across. As challenges and reckonings to that enter, the film becomes increasingly choppy and disjointed.

The one possible flaw (a second viewing my change my mind) is the final sequence which seemingly comes out of left field, because Lydia has completely lost her mind and her career. I briefly wondered if the last thirty minutes or so all took place in her mind, but I don’t think that interpretation is right.

The final breakdown of Lydia is perfectly filmed and choreographed, drawing from nearly every prominent scene that led to that climax. The hazy tracking shots perfectly reflect Lydia’s nightmares, and earlier exchanges all come to a head there.

In our culture of #metoo and canceling problematic artists, Lydia’s cancellation is a shattering of her world. That shattering is likewise reflected in the quicker editing as a world of abuse falls apart and Lydia loses her accomplishments. To claim that the film shares Lydia’s disdain of cancel culture is not accurate. For one thing, she is an unreliable narrator. More importantly, depiction of an obviously toxic world does not equal an endorsement of that world, and cancel culture is a threat to Lydia’s toxic world.

If Lydia has any real life counterpart, it’s probably James Levine, whom the film name drops by a character who sympathizes with him. While her crimes don’t equal his, and while her cancellation ends up being more severe than his ever was during his life, the question of how does one reckon with art created by monsters permeates the film.

I remember someone once saying “for every ‘separate the art from the artist’ person, there’s a better artist who isn’t a swamp monster.” I sadly disagree. Sometimes, there is a monster who is unparalleled in their artistic ability. (Confession: every time I make a list of who I think the ten greatest directors are, there’s one person I leave off, because I don’t want to entertain the conversation about the quality of his films given the crimes he committed.)

What we do with those monsters and their work is a crucial conversation. The romanticization of the asshole artist has created centuries of abuse and turning a blind eye to countless victims. TÁR is an unflinching depiction of that world, which challenges it through the toll it takes on everyone and everything: the asshole artist, the victims, their colleagues, and the art itself.

It is entirely appropriate that TÁR issues this challenge through the story of a conductor, a profession that has housed countless asshole artists. Even more appropriately, that conductor is on the brink of her career’s pinnacle achievement, and she is a woman who has fully imbibed the toxicity imbued in her profession’s past, a toxicity that at one point would have shut her out.

It’s no secret that conductors have a reputation for being arrogant, and TÁR is an example of that arrogance taken to an 11. If there’s a fine line between tragedy and comedy, it’s the tragic side of one of the most famous musician jokes:

Four conductors were sitting in a bar. Bernstein and Boulez were arguing over who was the greatest conductor. Bernstein insisted it must be him, because he had made more recordings than any other conductor. Boulez countered that he had conducted more of the world’s top orchestras, so he must be the greatest conductor. This went back and forth for some time. Looking to resolve this argument, Kleiber leaned over and said, “Fellows, you’re both wrong. God himself told me I’m the greatest conductor ever.” At which point, von Karajan slammed down his drink and said, “That’s not true, I never said that!”

Personal recommendation: A

Matilda the Musical

Year of release: 2022.                     Directed by Matthew Warchus.                 Starring Alisha Weir, Emma Thompson, Lashana Lynch, Stephen Graham, and Andrea Riseborough.

The two most important songs in Matilda the Musical are “When I Grow Up” and “My House.” Thankfully, in Matthew Warchus’ adaptation of the stage show he directed, those songs are beautifully filmed and performed, packing the emotional wallop they should.

Unfortunately, other than those two tearjerker moments, the emotional stakes are shockingly low, as this watered down version of Roald Dahl’s book and its musical adaptation receives a functional film adaptation. To be clear, nailing the two aforementioned songs places Matilda the Musical a league ahead of Rob Marshall’s disastrous dismantling of Nine, but several leagues behind Spielberg’s brilliant cinematic re-envisioning of West Side Story.

As to other recent Broadway adaptations, I preferred The Prom and Into the Woods, but Matilda over Les Misérables and obviously Dear Evan Hansen (though in the case of the latter, much of the fault lies with the equally offensive stage show).

I think most readers know that I love musicals and am deeply familiar with many of them. However, I know Matilda the Musical better than most shows, not only having seen it, but also having accompanied and directed the pit for a 2020 community theater production. (FWIW, I also read Dahl’s novel as a child but never saw the 1996 film.)

It’s an overused truism that what works on stage doesn’t work on film, and vice versa, but Warchus’ directing, which brilliantly created Dahl’s world of wonder and terror through a child’s eye on stage, feels sadly unimaginative on film. (It’s much better than Phyllida Lloyd’s attempt at recreating her stage direction of Mamma Mia! in the 2008 film adaptation, but that’s not a high bar.)

For instance, take the opening song, “Miracle.” The vibrant colors of the hospital as parents croon over their newborn infants feels like something out of a Dr. Seuss story, but the Wormwood’s home, Ms. Phelps’ traveling library are not much different. Even the supposedly intimidating school run by the sadistic Miss Trunchbull looks like a drabber version of the same thing. Given Tim Burton’s streak of misfires over the past decade, I won’t say Matilda the Musical would have been better had he directed it, but even at his worst, it would certainly have looked better.

Speaking of Burton and musicals, say what you want about the singing and cutting down of the score, but his Sweeney Todd captured a gothic Victorian world much better than Warchus’ very cheerful, brightly colored palette captures any of Dahl’s world, which is equal parts menace and wonder.

As to the staging of the numbers, there’s no consistency at all. “Miracle” welcomes us to a show about admiring parents as contrasted with the neglect and abuse of Matilda Wormwood at the hands of her parents. Eventually, it breaks into a fantasy performance complete with sequined costumes and microphones, not that different than Roxie’s fantasies in Marshall’s adaptation of Chicago. Then, Matilda’s “I want” song, “Naughty,” takes place as a dance across her home as if it’s happening in her world and not some imaginary fantasy. There is nothing wrong with either approach, but nearly every song shifts from one to the other. It’s sloppy and undermines the poignancy of Tim Minchin’s score (which is very good).

Perhaps Warchus was trying to set up the mix of childhood dreams versus realities that occurs in “When I Grow Up,” which is the heart of the show. As the children leave school after a day of witnessing horrific child abuse (more on that in a moment), they dream of the world as it is and as they know it should be. This is the strongest number in both the stage show and the film, and their naïve dreams of adulthood are effectively moving in their innocence, sense of wonder, and hope of escape.

As to the child abuse itself, the film is rated PG for “exaggerated bullying,” which initially seemed like an odd euphemism to describe the physical and psychological torture of children that Dahl wrote, but it’s really not inaccurate. As Miss Trunchbull, Emma Thompson is strangely miscast, and the sadistic headmistress is so unhinged that it is obvious from the beginning Matilda is going to get the best of her.

I love Emma Thompson and think she is one of the most talented actresses alive. There are several reasons I don’t care for her in this role. First, the role was written for a man in drag on stage, and while I’m not sure that suspension of disbelief would have worked in a film, the lower, darker range for which Trunchbull’s songs were written is lost with Thompson’s mezzo voice. Second, Thompson’s acting coupled with Warchus closeups of her is too subtle for a role that was written to be an eleven in terms of scenery chewing. I think of other similar villains (Jim Carrey’s Count Olaf, Robert Helpmann’s Child Catcher, even Thompson’s Baroness in Cruella), and they all were comical and menacing. The Trunchbull here is just comical.

As to the other villains (Matilda’s parents), Stephen Graham and Andrea Riseborough are largely wasted. They both have solo numbers in the stage show, which were cut from the film. Matilda also has an older brother in the show and novel, whose purpose is to show the blatant favoritism of their parents. He is also cut. All of this makes Matilda’s home life an underdeveloped afterthought that makes the neglect and emotional abuse of her parents seem like a joke. It also makes the antics of “Naughty” seem wholly unwarranted.

The lack of stakes for Matilda makes Dahl’s morbid world of corrupt idiot parents, evil authority figures, kind but frightened teachers, and scared children all shockingly dull. The outcome is never in doubt, even if one is not familiar with the story. To be sure, it’s a powerful story about standing up to the monsters in your life and building a family of love when your blood relations neglect their responsibilities, and the moments of tenderness highlighted in Minchin’s songs still come through, but it disappointingly lacks the emotional wallop that other versions of this story have.

One scene that does pack the emotional punch that it needs to is Lashana Lynch’s rendition of “My House.” As Miss Honey, Matilda’s tender yet timid teacher Lynch is easily the best of the cast, and she is given the most to do, despite her act one solo being cut as well. The casting of her parents makes that mystery obvious way too far in advance, but the “reveal” is still poignant without the surprise.

Regrettably, the filmmakers felt obligated to go for best original song Oscar and wrote a new finale for the movie. First, it takes the focus of the story away from Matilda and shifts who the protagonist is without any setup for such a shift. Second, like most attempts at that Oscar added to musical adaptations, the song is mostly forgettable. Third, the finale of the stage show is perfect, and it ruins that.

It is worth mentioning that this new finale is not the first time Warchus’ directing steals the story away from Matilda. Her act two solo, “Quiet,” is brilliantly sung by Alisha Weir, but editing the Trunchbull’s threats throughout it takes the moment of growth away from Matilda.

I would not deny that the stage version of Matilda the Musical has its flaws, but the energy and emotions packed into that production are some of the most moving and heartfelt, making it my favorite musical centered around children. Sadly, the film remains too much a shadow of that story to bring Dahl’s creation to life the way the musical did on stage.

Personal recommendation: C+

Gemmel & Tim

Year of release: 2022. Directed by Michiel Thomas.

There are many things one could say about Michiel Thomas’ documentary Gemmel & Tim. It’s a piece of investigate journalism, it’s an amplification of Black voices, it’s a heartbreaking story of friendships wrecked by drug addiction, it’s a scathing indictment of our political system; it’s a shocking example of our time our justice system worked for queer Black people and not against them. Of all the documentary’s many good qualities, I think the last is the one that strikes me the most.

Toward the end of the film, one of the activists interviewed states that the justice system has finally worked in that a major political donor who killed at least two Black men has been brought to justice. Given the amount of times America’s justice system has explicitly targeted minorities, imprisoned Black people for minor drug offences, and allowed white criminals to get away scot-free, one could be forgiven for thinking our “justice” system was designed to function that way. Gemmel & Tim highlights one hard-fought time when it truly served “liberty and justice for all,” and not just the wealthy elite.

The wealthy elite in Gemmel & Tim is Ed Buck, a republican donor in the ‘80s, who switched parties after evangelical Christians partnered with the republican party, and the GOP took a stance against homosexuality. To the extent that Gemmel & Tim focuses on Buck’s sexuality, he seems more of a power-hungry predator looking to exploit gay men, specifically younger, gay, Black men, than someone actually interested in a relationship with men. However, Buck is not the focus of the film.

The film’s focus is the memories of Gemmel Moore and Timothy Dean, two young Black men who died of drug overdoses in Buck’s West Hollywood apartment. Both cases were dismissed by the police, despite California’s law that anyone who administers drugs that result in a lethal overdose is guilty of murder. One of the most sobering lines is from an interviewee who states that if a Black man had a white man turn up dead in his apartment, he would not be able to assuage the police with a short interview insisting the death was an accident.

However, Buck has been a major donor to the mayor of West Hollywood’s campaigns, so that grants him immunity despite the evidence to the contrary, which the DA dismisses as lacking any proof. In a truly shocking twist of events, which the film withholds until the third act, the way that Buck is arrested and found guilty is an even bigger reversal of usual trends in America’s justice system. It’s a fittingly dramatic climax to an investigation that initially seemed like it would yield no results.

The heart of the film is not the investigation into the criminal conduct of Ed Buck, but the testimonies of Gemmel’s and Tim’s friends who recount stories of their humanity, kindness, and tragedy of the drug addiction that started when they encountered Buck.

As the title implies, the documentary is Gemmel’s and Tim’s tragic story at the hands of a predator who was able to abuse the system. There are also interviews with victims who survived Ed Buck’s sexual and narcotic abuse. The entire documentary is a sobering sum of parts that begins as random anecdotes and crescendos to a climax of justice as an investigation mounts over several years. Justice may be slow, and regardless of how America’s legal system functions, the arc of the universe is one of morality and justice for the oppressed, which this documentary shows in a surprisingly dramatic fashion.

The Black Phone

Year of release: 2022       Directed by Scott Derrickson. Starring Mason Thames, Madeleine McGraw, Jeremy Davies, and Ethan Hawke.

“Jesus, what the fuck!?” So prays Gwen (Madeleine McGraw) in front of her cross, rosary, and picture of the Immaculate Conception. What has just become my favorite cinematic prayer occurs roughly two-thirds of the way through Scott Derrickson’s kidnapping mystery and supernatural thriller. At this point, Gwen is beginning to despair of finding her missing brother Finney (Mason Thames) and wonders why God doesn’t interfere to save someone she loves from a looming grisly death.

The age-old question of how does an all-loving, all-powerful God allow bad things to happen is at the heart of Gwen’s character arc. Furthermore, if God interferes and answers her prayers, why didn’t He answer the presumable prayers of the family members of the previous kidnapping and murder victims?

The Black Phone does not provide any easy answers to explain the existence of evil in the presence of an omnipotent deity, but it does suggest where that deity is in the presence of such evil, and that is suffering alongside each and every victim. When Finney becomes the latest kidnapping victim in a string of child disappearances plaguing a Colorado town in 1978, the prayers of Gwen may not be answered in the dramatic fashion she desires, but the aid her brother receives is supernatural.

The blend of supernatural and kidnapping mystery works incredibly well. Derrickson has long proved his expertise at directing supernatural horror with The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Sinister, and Deliver Us from Evil. His decision here to film Gwen’s prophetic dreams as grainy home videos recalling 8 mm film is on the one hand an appropriate flashback to the ‘70s. At the same time, it shows the power of film to transport and inspire (and in this case, save lives) as it shines a light on evil.

Evil is something we all know exists. The evil in The Black Phone is personified by the Grabber (Ethan Hawke, doing fantastic work behind a mask for most of the film). The name of this serial kidnapper makes me think of President “Grab ‘em by the pussy,” and while that is almost certainly a coincidence, given the level of evil that his administration unleashed on the US and the world it is not completely without merit.

While Gwen’s character arc is focused on the divine and saving her brother, Finney’s is focused on survival. That survival comes into play through the titular black phone, which forms a supernatural link between the siblings and the unexpected answer to Gwen’s prayers.

As a Catholic, I believe in the communion of saints. One aspect of that doctrine is that all of us are connected and support one another on our journeys toward salvation, whether we’re alive or deceased. The support that Finney receives in the cellar is from the ghosts of the previous victims of the Grabber, which is probably the answer to his sister’s prayers.

Benevolent ghosts saving the life of one kidnapping victim may seem like a muddling of genres, but it is a mix that Derrickson and the cast handle brilliantly. As Finney, Mason Thames embodies the meek and mild kid who is afraid to stand up for himself and would rather take a beating from bullies and forget about it. The film’s climax where he finally does stand up to ferocious evil is a satisfying triumph of the little guy being exalted. It also comes through the help not only of his friends and sister, but of former bullies as well. It’s a sort of redemption for the bullies as well as the casting down of the ultimate bully.

Crosscut with the exaltation of Finney is the police attempting a rescue mission. This scene blatantly recalls The Silence of the Lambs (and if we’re honest, Jonathan Demme did it better), but it draws the focus to the love between Gwen and Finney as the police become irrelevant. While it may technically be the film’s biggest misstep, the way it highlights the central loving relationship between brother and sister is truly beautiful.

Gwen’s question as to whether Jesus even exists may or may not be answered in The Black Phone. What is answered is how to stand up to evil and whether we receive aid in doing so. That aid may come from the most unexpected places, but whether that aid is divinely inspired or merely the bonds of love between a brother and sister doesn’t make much difference. If one believes God is love, then that is the answer to Gwen’s prayer.

Personal recommendation: A-

Favorite Films of 2021

I saw far fewer movies than normal last year. I don’t think I even broke one hundred. As a result, I was debating whether I should even bother with a favorites of 2021 list. So, as with all important questions, I took a Twitter poll, and seven people voted that they wanted me to do this. For the sake of those seven, here are the films that impressed and stayed with me the most over the past year.

A lot of things happened last year. I got a new job and moved halfway across the country. I completed by doctorate. Both those things were time consuming and I missed several releases as a result. One of those was Dune; I still haven’t had a chance to catch up with it.

I was going to watch more movies in the first weeks of January, but then I got COVID and had to stay home. I missed Memoria because of that. At least I was able to catch up with a lot of streaming options, and I think I did a pretty decent job of that.

Finally, I’m obligated to note that there were a lot of movie musicals last year. Many of them you will see on the list below. Dear Evan Hansen you will not. And with that, here are my favorite films of 2021.

Good films worth noting (30-21):

Bergman Island, Last Night in Soho, Titane, A Quiet Place: Part II, Spencer, Procession, House of Gucci, Nightmare Alley, Benedetta, Shiva Baby

Honorable Mentions:

20. The Novice (Lauren Hadaway) – A freshman (Isabelle Fuhrman) with a type-A+ work ethic pushes herself to be the best on her college’s rowing team, and a psychological and physical breakdown ensues. More than a mere cautionary tale against perfectionism, the masterful marriage of imagery and sound places the viewer in Alex’s (Fuhrman) mental space, as the relationships she prioritizes come to the forefront of the film.

19. Cruella (Craig Gillespie) – I truly do not understand the hatred this film got. Yes, the premise sounded terrible, but it was from a writer of The Favourite, the director of Lars and the Real Girl, the trailer had major Batman Returns vibes, and it starred two fantastic actresses who delivered delightful scenery chewing performances. It may or may not have been an origin story for the puppy killer Cruella de Vil (although a sequel could easily get Stone’s antihero there), but it was the most fun I had at the movies all of last year.

18. Undine (Christian Petzold) – A beautiful myth and story of sacrifice that suggests the unification of anything always comes at a cost. The reworking of the myth into present day Berlin reminds us the wounds of WWII are still not completely healed, just as the world of the water nymph and the human cannot be completely reconciled.

17. The Mitchells vs. The Machines (Michael Rianda) – A crazy rollercoaster of a film about the importance of family, learning from everyone, and appreciating who we are, even when that makes us “different.” When a robot apocalypse plans to eradicate humankind, the ultimate dysfunctional family all has to learn lessons about their unique gifts to save the world. The premise and execution are bonkers, but Olivia Colman’s evil phone and the unorthodox quality family time make it a joy-filled trip worth taking.

16. Pray Away (Kristine Stolakis) – The testimonies of several survivors of conversion therapy recount their experiences of coming out and reckoning with their sexualities in a culture where it was taken for granted you should “pray away” the gay. The examples of grief and repentance from former conversion therapy leaders at the harm they caused are truly remarkable instances of contrition, and the culmination of the testimonies with a lesbian church wedding shows that true faith and queer acceptance are not opposed to one another.

Runners-up:

15. Summer of Soul (…or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised) (Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson) – The 1969 Harlem Cultural Festival was billed as “the Black Woodstock” in an attempt to garner the same coverage and excitement, but America had moved on, and all the footage shot then was forgotten until this past year. Assembling the “lost” footage into a documentary, director Questlove delivers a front-row seat to a first-rate concert of Black musicians, but he also does so much more. Intercutting the archived footage with interviews, he highlights the ways that gospel, jazz, blues, and other Black music has shaped communities, given a voice to the voiceless, and challenged the norms of white America. The concert culminates with a performance by Nina Simone, and her artistry and song choices could not be a more perfect climax.

14. Mass (Fran Kranz) – “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there with them.” The two couples in Mass may not be gathered in Jesus’ name, but they are gathered at an Episcopal church, and they’re gathered for some sort of healing, although none of them know what that looks like. The Mass is a sacrifice, as is this gathering and the memories of the horror that induced it. What’s truly remarkable about Mass is the empathy it engenders for all its characters and the way the catharsis extends not only to them but to the viewer as well. By the time the dismissal happens, the viewer truly understands what it means to go in peace and what cost that entails.

13. Licorice Pizza (Paul Thomas Anderson) – I’ve gone back and forth on this film, but what ultimately won me over is the idea that Gary (Cooper Hoffman) and Alana (Alana Haim) are two stand-ins for anyone who’s ever been in a relationship that’s less than ideal, but still deeply care about the other person. Gary and Alana’s relationship is certainly not ideal, but there’s also a sense of innocence in a world of cynical fakes. And to be sure, no relationship in Licorice Pizza is ideal; perhaps that’s the relationship to the mysterious title. Gary and Alana may be fakes as well, but they’re ones who hustle for each other and others’ happiness and not their own interests.

12. The Tragedy of Macbeth (Joel Coen) – Joel Coen’s first feature without his brother Ethan, this is visually one of his most stunning films. Shot in gorgeous black and white and anchored by two solid performances from Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, Shakespeare’s tragedy unfolds briskly as Coen trims the play to its most essential lines. It’s not an unorthodox choice for adapting Shakespeare, but it works here, because it matches the tightness of the visual imagery. Stealing the screen is Kathryn Hunter as the three witches, whose appearances to Macbeth perfectly foreshadow his encroaching doom.

11. In the Heights (John M. Chu) – The stroke of genius to this musical adaptation is having Usnavi (Anthony Ramos) tell his story and the story of Washington Heights to a group of children rather than breaking the fourth wall as he did in the stage show. It preserves the story for the next generation, it organically maintains the theatricality of the source material without becoming contrived, and it connects the story across generations as well. The rest of Lin Manuel Miranda’s musical transfers pretty effortlessly to the big screen, with stunning production numbers that celebrate the Dominican Republic, our dreams, our loves, and our vocations.

The Top Ten

10. The Last Duel (Ridley Scott) – Of the two period pieces about the horrors of toxic masculinity and not believing women (this and Benedetta) and of the two Ridley Scott flicks released year, The Last Duel is the one that stood out above both. The Rashomon-style storytelling illuminates the truth and just how much one’s desire to be the hero of their own story can lead to dangerous and harmful assumptions that hurt the most vulnerable, as can be seen from the flawed perspectives that form the first two narratives. When the corrective third narrative occurs, we’re not supposed to believe it just because the protagonist is a woman, but because of the ways her narrative confirms what each man has already told us about himself.  Framing the film is the titular last duel fought in France, reminding us of what it means to live in a world where might makes right.

9. Pig (Michael Sarnoski) – When a radical act of mercy and forgiveness serves as the climax of a film, the love it has for all its characters is apparent. When that act references Babette’s Feast, Chef, and Ratatouille, the love extends not only to the characters but to our enemies, our vocations, and our pets. Pig is a film that defies easy conventional descriptions, but its one constant is the love and mercy that permeates it. Part buddy road trip, part mystery, part comedy, part neo-noir, the blend of styles and genres come together around a fantastic performance from Nicolas Cage, whose commitment to what he loves at any personal sacrifice makes all the genres work. The gradual revelation of the blissful past makes the sins of the present harder to bear, but it also makes the merciful response to them all the more striking.

8. The Card Counter (Paul Schrader) – Our sins have long-lasting consequences. That is the obvious theme of Paul Schrader’s latest thorny story of redemption, and it is one that plays out with nightmares of the past, torture, prison time, mentoring, and card counting. Oscar Isaac gives a career best performance as the gambler William Tell, who appreciates the order of prison life, the security of small stakes card counting, and following orders. However, the guilt of some of those orders leads to an unusual attempt at atonement by helping a kid named Cirk (Tye Sheridan) with the assistance of an investor named La Linda (Tiffany Haddish). Confronting past demons is something Schrader excels at, and an ever-present sense of guilt drives the story to its tragic conclusion perfectly.

7. A Hero (Asghar Farhadi) – One difference between a good movie and a great movie is knowing where and when to point the camera. What makes that distinction for A Hero are the frequent cuts to a child, reminding us that the sins of adults make an impression and have more victims than just the adults. Farhadi knows the tragic nature of his story about a man on leave from debtor’s prison who spins one good deed into an elaborate fabrication of his heroism, and Farhadi also knows that the consequences of such a fabrication can most strongly be shown through the reactions of a child. Rahim (Amir Jadidi) may become the titular hero, but his son’s silent witness to his shortcoming is what most strongly underscore the cruelty of a culture that prizes appearances without second chances.

6. The Lost Daughter (Maggie Gyllenhaal) – Perhaps the greatest collaboration by two actors I’ve ever seen, Olivia Colman and Jessie Buckley’s portrayal of one woman at two different points in her life is haunting, beautiful, and seamlessly merged. They are tremendously aided by Maggie Gyllenhaal’s directing, which perfectly times the cuts between past and present, as the memories of the past grow into longer and longer segments. Leda’s choices could easily make her repugnant, but Colman and Buckley show the tortured soul underneath the cruel exterior. The cinematography both captures the beauty of the Greek island and creates an intimacy for a story about broken relationships and missing dolls. The way Gyllenhaal merges the dichotomy captures the tragedy and longing of every child as wel as the toll that takes on every mother.

5. The Power of the Dog (Jane Campion) – An unlikely marriage between a rancher and a widow leads to an unlikely friendship between his brother and her son. The friendship is unlikely, because the coarse, arrogant, bullying demeanor of Phil Burbank (an intimidating Benedict Cumberbatch) is completely at odds with the mild-mannered, effeminate Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee). As much a psychological thriller as a western, The Power of the Dog simultaneously shows humankind’s capacity for cruelty and kindness, for holding onto one truth while denying another. Above all, it addresses the importance of mentors and the ways they can shape our lives for good or ill, as each mentee becomes more or less subject to the shadow cast by the power of the dog.

4. Drive My Car (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi) – A sprawling, heartfelt epic about dealing with loss, the pangs of creating art, and the formative relationships that are both positive and toxic. If that makes Drive My Car sound intimidating, it shouldn’t, because each minute of this three-hour movie is a delight from the flawed yet loving marriage of director/actor Kafuku (Hidetoshi Nishijima) and writer Oto (Reika Kirishima) to the multilingual production of Chekov’s Uncle Vanya that brings together a truly unique ensemble. It would be wrong to single out any relationship without mentioning the others, but the bond that forms between Kafuku and his young driver Mitari (Tôko Miura) turns into an unlikely friendship that reveals the way we grow from all past relationships, even those that were less than ideal.

3. West Side Story (Steven Spielberg) – A near perfect adaptation of a near perfect musical, Spielberg and Tony Kushner’s home run revitalizes West Side Story for a new generation while honoring the greatness of the source material (both Shakespeare and Laurents). The changes work beautifully, the emotional casting choice pays off perfectly, and as Tony and Maria Ansel Elgort and Rachel Zegler have enough chemistry to be believable as the star struck lovers while also being unremarkable enough to blend into their cultures of which they are a product. The tragedy doesn’t just affect them, it affects everyone, as the stellar supporting cast makes clear. (full review)

2. The French Dispatch (Wes Anderson) – On the one hand a parody of the New Yorker, but at the same time a love letter to cinema, magazines, and widening our horizons. The French Dispatch is possibly the most Wes Andersonesque film ever, and its smorgasbord of characters, sets, costumes, and stories revels in Anderson’s typical quirkiness, but it also provides a wider lens for viewing the world and learning about other cultures as each reporter brings their unique voice to each segment. Tying everything together is the joy Anderson finds in his eccentric collection of characters and scenarios—a joy that is refreshing and infectious as Bill Murray’s editor’s love for his titular magazine.

1. Annette (Leos Carax) – Art influences life and life influences art. In other words, our entertainment shapes the way we view the world, and the world shapes the type of entertainment that is made. On its surface, Annette is a toxic love story between offensive comedian Henry McHenry (a terrifying Adam Driver) and world-renowned soprano Ann Desfranoux (a sublime Marion Cotillard). However, this toxic relationship exposes the mechanics behind opera, comedy, and musicals through the simple lyrics, blurring the line between fantasy and reality, and the fame (or infamy) each character achieves.

With each performance within the film, director Leos Carax draws attention to the way the audience reacts and asks what they take away from each character’s performance and persona. On a larger level, as scenes blur from performance to dream to studio, he is asking the same question of the art and performances that we have enjoyed throughout the past couple centuries. How have these art works shaped our own views, and how have our views influenced the art we create? How does our art treat the most vulnerable? Who does our art celebrate? And most strikingly, who does our art give voice to? (full review)